No Light
by LeDbrite
Summary: HYRDRA: Largest operating cyber crime organization globally. SHIELD: Their opposition. Shortly after Skye unites with her soul mate, she fails a critical mission. Bent on justification, she finds buried in the depths of the internet deception, lies, and a reality she's not yet ready to face. Modern Soul Mate AU. Skyeward
1. One: Sworn In

_**One: Sworn In  
**_

 _Veritatem Cognoscere_

 _(To Know the Truth)_

com·mit  
/kəˈmit/  
 _verb_

 **1**. carry out or perpetrate (a mistake, crime, or immoral act).  
"he committed an uncharacteristic error"

 **2.** pledge or bind (a person or an organization) to a certain course or policy.  
"they were reluctant to **commit themselves to** an opinion"

* * *

What if this storm ends and I don't see you?

As you are now, ever again?

– _Snow Patrol: Lightning Strike_

* * *

 **SHIELD**

 **LOCATION: CLASSIFIED**

 **PRESENT DAY – 6:35 a.m. EST**

Glaring a spotlight on the center of the table, the lamp failed to illuminate the darkened edges of the room. With an audible **click,** the recorder snapped on. Bland voice dismissing the silence, the words echoed faintly after being spoken.

"Recount the mission."

* * *

...oOo...

* * *

Rain and sweat left condensation on his skin, palms clammy, and heart jumping with nerves.

The pitch black sky pressed ominously above the streets, impotent lightning flickering faintly in the cloud bellies. Persistent drizzling had plagued the day, leaving it dreary and depressing, a fact that hadn't changed as night slipped in. Wan light from the street lamps reflected a dull glow onto the road, the main source of light in the area, but the uncovered fluorescent bulb of the telephone booth on the street corner offered strong competition. The slums of Boston were empty of traffic at that time of night. Weary buildings sagged and leaned against each other, once stately to look upon, but now left to slowly decay. The buzz of insects could be heard clearly over the whisper of rain, tapping longingly against the glass, unaware of the danger closing in beyond their small lives. Threatening from the shadows, raising the hair on the back of one's neck, its presence was tangible, disturbing the quiet, and attracting its servants of darkness and ill-intent to that location.

Bolting from the shadow of the alley where the car was parked, he sprinted for the telephone booth. Digits for the phone number raced through his head, and a single mantra repeated under his breath. _"Make the call and finish them. Make the call and finish them."_ Wind from his speed and the thunderously loud sound of his footfalls drowned all other noise to his ear, leaving him vulnerable to the shadow that raced to intercept him.

Slamming him into the glass of the booth, knocking the breath from his lungs, a solid body pinned him down. "What do you think you're doing, kid?" a voice breathed in his ear, pressing his face harder into the booth. "Thought you were going to rat us out, give away our location?"

 _Gah, a talker. He hated talkers._

Planting his feet firmly, acting on instinct, the words didn't register, his mind too caught up in the moment to fully consider the small degree of training he'd received. Shoving back for all he was worth, thigh muscles springing him up like a jack-in-the-box, he jerked an elbow around in the process to hit his opponent's ribs.

Hissing as it struck his solar plexus, the other man stumbled back as he bent over double.

Free to move a little, he went for the opening, trying to follow it up with a right hook and roundhouse kick, but the man recovered too swiftly and blocked it with a tidy defensive swipe.

Stepping in with a cold expression, dodging a weak blow, he delivered a rapid two-strike to the younger man's gut.

Inhaling sharply, he glared at his opponent. _Okay, not a talker._ But this guy was good, much better than his few months of training could offer, but he tested another sideswipe, waiting for his opportunity.

Parrying the blow, his opponent's next swing was a vicious hook to the face.

Vision blanking out, already feeling the beginnings of a black eye, he was helpless to react.

Wet glass meeting his back, his head gave a solid THUNK! as a fist connected with his jaw. Dimly, he noticed two other men in the background.

Materializing out of the shadows, approaching at their leisure, they let their friend deal with him. All wore the same tactical gear, but one had an earpiece, which meant they were in direct contact with a supervisor. It ensured that however he got out of this, he'd have to eliminate them, and quickly, before backup joined in.

Following his gaze, his opponent smirked smugly. "Now's a good time to surrender if you want to get off easy."

 _Occasional talker then._

Acting impulsively, he used the momentary distraction to his advantage. In this situation, gross motor skills were a finer weapon than the finesse combinations of before. Lightning stalled with a strobe light pulse, illuminating his one punch, two punch, three roundhouse kick into the heavier man's gut.

Rocking with the blow, growling an unintelligible curse, the agent fixed his vision unwavering on the kid's face, his eyes darkening with bloodlust. Powering forward with a low thrown punch, swinging blindly, he left himself open for the next attack.

Driving a knee into the broader man's stomach, he shoved forward with his entire body. For a moment, the combined weight of their bodies hung, caught, before gravity acted and their unbalanced weight wavered, teetering...

tipping... slowly...

oooovvveeerrr...

Toppling over with a splash, his knee remained planted in his opponent's gut, giving him the advantage.

"You little shi–!" the man grappled ineffectively at the wiry frame of the smaller man.

Pinning his throat with an arm, a gunshot sent him crouching lower.

Cocking the gun, no longer distant observers, the first figure skirted in and out of shadows. Not too far behind, the second had a hand raised to his earpiece, no doubt communicating with their source and greatly raising the stakes against him.

 _Then let's finish_ , he thought grimly.

Eying them warily, he reached back slowly, hand groping around the other man's waist until he found the concealed gun.

Realizing the other's motive, the larger man thrashed violently, bucking upwards to throw off the arm on his throat, but a swift punch to the temple left him stunned.

Settling his forearm more firmly against the other's windpipe, hard enough to cut off all oxygen, body braced in case of another attempt to over throw, he snagged the weapon's handle. Confidence surging, tasting the possibility of a victory, he sighted the other two.

 _This better work._

Jabbing the barrel into the man's gut below him, he fired a test shot. Not flinching at the man's cry, he whipped the pistol up and shot twice in quick succession.

One black shadow dropped a hand to clutch his stomach, the second scuttled back for the nearest black wall. Raising the gun to cover his injured colleague, he –

Firing again, keen to maintain the offensive, the youngster's second round of bullets dropped the second figure, useless gun clattering loudly against the asphalt.

Thunder crescendoing, he held steady, breath slow, even. Focusing on the final assailant standing, the gun swung easily into position, dropping the man while still calculating the distance in his head. Bringing his hand down, he placed the last bullet in the brain of the guy beneath him and dropped the gun.

Rain pattered bleakly. Lightning flickered anxiously. Staggering to his feet, adrenaline rushed through his veins, trembling within his limbs. Survive. Survive. Survive.

 _Make the call._

 _Finish them._

 _Once and for all._

Leaving the bodies behind him, he limped into the telephone booth, sodden in dirt, sweat, and rain, lungs heaving for air, but more resolved than before to make the call. Phone held to his ear, shaking fingers nearly forfitting the call, he counted the rings with bated breath till the operator finished reciting her lines.

Swallowing to keep his voice even, he stated clearly, "Yes, I'm calling to..."

…

…

…

Abandoning the scene, he moved steadily away from the city.

* * *

 **BOSTON**

 **UNKNOWN LOCATION**

 **UNKNOWN TIME**

Within an hour of his call, two sleek, black cars rolled up.

The thunderheads appear to have moved westward, completely avoiding the city and leaving him walking in a constant drizzle. Pedestrians, which were scarce before, are a little more common, traversing between the local joints available at that hour. Drunk. Careless. Ignorant of his shadow as it briefly touches their own shadow and skims by. Observant for any vehicle traffic, he senses more than sees when his tail arrives. Ducking into the first open ended alley, he waits, using carefully measured steps to pace out a comfortable distance between him and the newcomers.

Door thumping closed, the mellow voice that calls out could almost be considered friendly. Almost. If it weren't for that no nonsense you-will-obey-me undercurrent edging it.

"Kid, if you wouldn't mind stopping, we'd like to speak with you."

Damn. That's the second time he's been called 'kid' tonight. Hands burrowed into pockets, shoulders stooped to disguise his stature, he faces them smoothly. Eyes sizing up the two latest black figures to accost him, his words are surprisingly calm compared to the thrumming, quickening pulse throbbing in his neck. "What about?" It could be them. It could be someone else. There wasn't room for risks though.

Flashing a badge, the question, "You made the call?" follows immediately afterwards.

Sagging against the wet masonry of the nearest building, panic subsiding, he resigns, complying with the men's orders. Hands up. Endure a pat down for weapons (good thing he left the gun at the sight). Let them escort him to the street. Climb into the nondescript black car. Listen to a puddle slosh as the car pulls away from the curb.

The leather seat sticks uncomfortably to his wet clothes, creaking with every weight shift. Encased by the dark intestines of the car, he can't even make out the cityscape beyond the tinted window. But he did it. If only they'll believe him.

"How soon will we be there?"

Guarded eyes flicker to meet his in the mirror. "Soon enough."

"Where are we going?"

"Headquarters."

* * *

 **INQUIRY ROOM**

 **UNKNOWN LOCATION**

 **UNKNOWN TIME**

He'd become well acquainted with the room by the time someone returned. There was a musty smell of old mops and rodent dung. Formless rust stains curved with the slope of the concrete floor, not nearly as broad or large as the cracks across the ceiling. Bland cement bricks with chipped white paint revealing gray underneath, proof that the room really was an unused storage closet in the basement, stacked twenty high, and sixty across, offered no more visual interest than anything else. Hastily set up in the middle of the room, it was clear that the cheap folding table and chairs were last minute additions.

It'd felt like hours since he'd entered "headquarters", the walk through the garage a blip in his memory compared to the hours he'd spent being interrogated by every kind of agent. Little gratitude could be spared for the fact that someone had actually provided food and water at point during the ceaseless shuffle of questions, only because it'd been so much further away compared to how long he'd been waiting.

Slouched in the chair, he glared warily as the door swung wide, admitting a man dressed in business casual and sporting an agreeable smile that said _'I want you to believe I'm your friend.'_ Not trusting him, he ignored him as the other man took a seat. He'd dealt with enough agents already and was far beyond tired of this dance.

Noting the open hostility with which he'd been greeted, the smile was swiftly replaced by a grim expression, and he studied the boy a moment before speaking up.

"What's your name son?"

Flickering a glance up at the agent, he muttered, "Grant Ward."

"Well Grant Ward, you can call me John." Sitting across from him, shadows played across his face and concealed all recognizable characteristics. The only notable features were the well-muscled frame, broad shouldered and tall, with a deceptively friendly tone. "Now you have two options. One, you agree to accept a mission from us, the details of which will not be disclosed until you've given your answer. Or two, if you decide not to accept the mission, you are put on trial and incarcerated in federal prison for the rest of your life." Folding his arms over his chest and tipping onto the back legs of the chair in an _'I'm waiting'_ gesture, the grim lines on the agent's stern face didn't slacken.

Frowning petulantly, frustration bubbling up at the fact that he had put his life on the line to bring this intel to them, he moodily looked away, refusing to answer. _'I don't have to play this game. I offered my cooperation, if they want to believe me, they should act like it.'_

Not at all impressed with the affronted child act, the agent counted almost to a minute, letting the young adult stew in his temper tantrum before adding, "In ten seconds we decide your fate for you." An unkind smirk flitted briefly across his face, daring the punk to see what they had in store for him, but it wasn't like they hadn't given him a cha...

He'd hardly finished thinking the thought before Ward snapped out, "Fine, I'll take option one!" Crossing his arms huffily, he glared murderously at the older man, hating the smug bastard for failing to mention the last condition of a time limit.

Teeth flashing in what must have been an attempt at a welcoming smile, the effect totally lost on Ward, he pulled out a mission file, assorted loose papers, and identification card from under his coat. "Congratulations Mr..."

* * *

/\\\/\\\

* * *

A/N: Just going to keep this note quick. Thanks to all the other Skyeward shippers out there who kept me inspired with your stories! While I'm several seasons behind on AoS, I'm finally contributing to the fandom again! (Thank goodness this is a non-canon compliant AU, because otherwise I'd be toast trying to bring this up to speed! And Skye will always be Skye to me, never Daisy...)

Anyways, the first few chapters will be posted regularly, after that it just depends on how well I am able to stay ahead ;D

Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next time! Until then ^^

* * *

 _Ward: *makes the call* "Yes I'm calling because no one has reviewed! How do I get them to review?!"_

 _Operator: "Sir, that's not what this line is for..." *click*_

 _Ward: NOOOO! But I need reviews to finish the mission! *fades away into the distance*_

 _...oOo..._

 _Reviews are greatly appreciated, thank you!_


	2. Two: At Odds

**_Two: At Odds_**

 _Patria secura legali vigilia._

 _(A nation secure through lawful vigilance.)_

in·ter·cep·tion

/ˌin(t)ərˈsepSH(ə)n/

 _noun_

1\. to **take** , **seize** , or **halt** (someone or something on the way from one place to another); **cut off** from an intended destination:

"military **interception** stopped the mission."

2\. an **act** or **instance** of receiving electronic transmissions before they reach the intended recipient.

"designed for the clandestine **interception** of other people's telephone calls"

* * *

"Speak of the devil, look who just walked into the room,

A guilted and faded notion of someone I once knew."

 _\- Shinedown: Through the Ghost_

* * *

 **SHIELD**

 **INTERROGATION OBSERVATORY**

 **PRESENT DAY – 06:27 a.m. EST**

Entering the interrogation room observatory, the Director studied the man sitting on the other side of the glass. Lean, muscular arms handcuffed in front of him, dark hair neatly combed except for the widow's peak that insisted on dipping over his forehead, his eyes stared directly forward, waiting, anticipating. Light from the lamp over his head casts deep shadows, conforming to the contours of his face, guarding his expression, making it unreadable. Visibly marking him with the shady tones of his character.

Despise, born of betrayal and knowledge of the man's crimes, churns his stomach.

Fist clenched, jaw taunt, eyes cold and unforgiving, the memory of this man's crimes stand fresh in his mind's eye. Energy burns through his body, adrenaline spiking from anger. He could reach through the window and crush his throat, the glass nothing but a flimsy barrier between them. It would be simple. Make him pay for his sins, though it wouldn't be enough to atone for the pain he's caused, it would at least spare others. The feeling rises strongly, muscles tensing and releasing, already experiencing the motions they would go through, but he suppresses the urge even though he can envision it clearly.

This man could be another agent, recently returned from mission, waiting for debrief, except for two things. The history between them, and he is there under custody.

Releasing a sharp, anxiety filled breath, he forces himself to turn away from the window, hands impulsively straightening his tie out of habit. "Stay objective," he mutters in an under voice, pacing restlessly around the small, decor-less room.

Although not conducting the briefing, it doesn't prevent him from being any less invested in learning the truth. But there were so many secrets to shift through. So many lies, all spoken in a silken smooth voice, expertly veiled behind the right emotions and expressions. Well-constructed falsehoods, strengthened by the distorted facts of partial truths, stretches over several years, the source of every one coming from the guise of a friend and trusted ally. Carefully covered trails, both paper and digital, doubling back upon itself and retracing paths, left an impossibly tangled web in its wake. It made his head spin thinking of it.

Yet the government stalls, protocol relieving him, the Director, of the authority to act judiciously and rid the world of a monster.

Drawn like a moth to a flame, he leaves off pacing to return to the window, unconsciously believing that if he doesn't keep watching, justice won't be delivered.

And in this man's case, there is no justice deserving enough to atone for the sins he's committed.

* * *

 **SHIELD**

 **PRIVATE QUARTERS**

 **PRESENT DAY – 06:41 a.m. EST**

The screen comes up:

SHIELD DATABASE FILES

Typing in the mission name, a short summary brief appeared followed by another screen.

[ – On 04/17/18 permission for agents to pursue investigative actions was acquired. Nature of investigations: CLASSIFIED. – ]

OPERATION: RISING TIDE

AGENT: XXX

AUTHORIZED BY: XXX

MISSION GOAL: XXX

CLEARANCE DENIED

LEVEL 10 CLASSIFIED

AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED

Entering the pass codes, the redacted file disappears only to be replaced by the full transcript.

OPERATION: RISING TIDE

AGENT: SKYE JOHNSON

MISSION GOAL:

MISSION STATUS: COMPLETE

S.O.: DIRECTOR PHILLIP COULSON

FILE ALERT: INQUIRY POSTED

Debriefing transcripts fall into tidily labeled order below.

080818/INTERROGATION/INQUIRY

072118/INVESTIGATION/PERMISSION

063018/RELINQUISHED/DIGITAL/ASSETS

042018/LOD/INJURY

041718/CESSATION/ORDER

032818/COMPLETION/DEBRIEF

The first one...

Yesterday.

Things had been accelerating since then. With the hive stirred, rest had escaped every agent as it was all hands on deck. Even for those who, well... might've been – somewhat – expressly told that they were to remain... simply put... uninvolved.

 _This was necessary though._

 _It had to be done._

 _For everyone's sakes._

[]

Debriefing Transmission:

DC: State your name for the record.

GW: Grant Douglas Ward

DC: Name of employer

GW: Classified

DC: *Shifts in chair, leaning forward, placing elbows on the table* Speaking on behalf of your best interests, I advise you tell us the name of your employer.

GW: Respectfully, sir, that is classified.

Space of silence.

DC: Fine. What were the nature of your missions in the year leading up to HYRDA's revelation?

GW: Undercover.

Outside noises faintly caught on tape before the door opens*

New Voice: Sir, Donnelly requests you meet him outside.

DC: *To GW* We'll continue this later.

Transmission Ends

[]

Brow furrowing, chaffed lower lip almost gnawed away by relentless teeth, thought-quick hands briefly linger on the laptop as troubled eyes stare at the transcript, skimming over it one last time. With a decisive **-click-** the information disappears back into the abyss of the database.

* * *

/\\\/\\\

* * *

AN: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

* * *

 _DC: What is the nature of your mission?_

 _You: To read the story..._

 _Me: WAIT! You're forgetting the most important part!_

 _You: *mutely shakes head*_

 _Me: But its automatic fail if you don't review... *activates mega beam puppy dog eyes* Please?_

 _...oOo..._

 _Reviews are greatly appreciated!_


	3. Three: Conference Call

_**Three: Conference Call**_

 _Be at the heart of world-shaping events._

func·tion·al

/ˈfəNG(k)SH(ə)n(ə)l/

 _adjective_

1\. of or having a special **activity** , **purpose** , or **task** ; relating to the way in which something **works** or **operates**.

"there are important **functional** differences between left and right brain"

2\. designed to be **practical** and **useful** , rather than attractive.

"she had assumed the apartment would be **functional** and simple"

* * *

"You're standing out from the crowd,

Strobe lights on your body,

When everyone's fading out, you're real for now."

 _– Hilary Duff: My Kind_

* * *

2 years, 4 months, and 11 days ago...

March 28th, 2016

 **WASHINGTON D.C.**

 **THE MEAD CENTER**

 **6:48 EST**

Standing at the top of the mezzanine staircase, heeled toes aligned with the edge of the step, Skye swirled the bubbling liquid in her champagne flute. An excited rush raced over her skin, the comfortable temperature a little too warm for her accelerated pulse. Eyes wide, flitting to and fro, quick as a hummingbird, her heart quickened with every guest she recognized. Senators and politicians stood out like peacocks; chests puffed, egos filled with the helium of their self-worth, they boasted commercial fake smiles and an ever-present hand available to shake. Esteemed businessmen and women made up the majority. Methodically working through the crowd, forming relationships, promoting their services, they didn't sport the million watt bulb smile of the politicians, but they made up for in sincerity. International delegates, experts of the field, contributors, and innovators made up the rest of the attendance.

Each guest held a position or reputation of report.

Yet, she got to be there as one of the marginal fringe group: security. Well, that, and the fact that she was also one of the presenters, but that was the cover story.

Poised aloft above the crowd, sleek black dress shimmering with her every motion, the barebacked, high-slit halter accentuated her form beautifully, earning many an appreciative glance. It made her feel sexy in a confidence boosting, self promoting way. Just like women spies in movies! Or living the ball scene from Anastasia (sans being Russian and reliving a memory). All that was missing was her Dimitri.

Speaking of Anastasia characters, why were her Vladimir and Sofia taking so long?

Half turning from the stairs, conscious that others might be watching and not wanting to appear too obvious, Skye made a subtle show of brushing back the hair from her face as an excuse to touch her earpiece. "So far so good. I could get used to this people. If I had known spy work was this glamorous, I would've requested Field Operations years ago!"

 _"Don't lose your focus, Skye,"_ May warned. _"Missions like this aren't for fun."_

 _I know_ , Skye thought, silently rolling her eyes at her S.O.'s words. As experienced and correct as she was in her statement, it certainly was a buzzkill to her partying mood. Upon the inner balcony of the Molly Smith study, Skye observed the mingling and jovial mood of the crowd below. None of the other guests were being warned off their cheer by a stoic, notoriously not fun supervisor. Tinkling glasses chiming high, heels and shoes clunking low, with voices falling in the middle, it all blended together in a melody of animated ambiance. From the ballroom, live music sashayed through the premises, plain background tunes for now, but promising that soon things would really pick up.

"Right, any leads on our guy?" Skye asked.

 _"Nothing for certain – "_

 _" – We don't have an identity yet – "_

 _" – But Ms. Price is definitely being targeted by HYDRA,"_ Fitzsimmons finished together.

Skye had to smile at how perfectly synced the duo were, it was no wonder they were soul mates. Everything the couple did was a choreographed movement of harmony, making it impossible to tell where one left off and the other began. Knowing the story of how the Scotsman and the English woman met merely made the pair sweeter. The only thing missing was a wedding ring. Against all stereotypes, though, they were content as just friends.

 _Oh, there we go...!_

Deepening her voice and channeling her inner stealth mode, Skye left the stairs, legs immediately picking up the runway strut that seemed to be the only appropriate way to walk in her equilibrium-defying heels. "Skipper to Bravo, I got eyes on Top Dog. The Eagle is landing on it."

 _"What are you doing?"_

"Uh, are we not using code words?" Code words were totally a thing! How could they be a badass security company if they didn't use code words?

 _"No! What do you take us for? An American noir film!?"_

 _"And no drinking! Bloody 'ell Skye, you're s'posed to take this mission seriously."_

Okay, that last part was clearly a joke. Fitzsimmons would have to come up with something better than that to trick her.

 _"Honestly, what do you take us for?"_ And that was Simmons' prissy, English jibe at Americans in general.

"Sorry. I don't know. I see Coulson and Price, I'm gonna go talk to them."

Heads bent in conference, postures open, body language reciprocating, the two looked surprisingly close... Or maybe well-acquainted was a better term for it. Regardless, there was clearly more than a working relationship between them.

Keeping a slower pace, heels clicking a little louder than necessary, Skye hoped it would be enough to alert them to her presence. In reality, she didn't know whether Price could be described as a Sophie-type character or not. She'd gotten that impression from Coulson's verbal reflections. Tone warm, expression fond, he seemed to regard her as an old friend. The contents of the mission brief neither confirmed nor denied. Investigative research (fine, hand way up GUILTY for hacking) hadn't been anymore insightful.

At close observation though, Skye had to wonder if the woman ever let her hair down. Figuratively speaking. Short bob cut as ramrod straight as her back. Shoulders aligned parallel with the perfectly procured horizontal line of her bangs. Strict, white, business cut dress adhering to every definition of 'powerful businesswoman,' her stature alone wasn't anything noteworthy, but the way she carried herself spoke volumes. Head high, eyes watchful, intolerable of frivolities or wasting time, exuding stately professionalism.

 _Definitely not the 'Sophie' type. More like the Empress._

Coulson was undoubtedly Vladimir though. Sewn into his tuxedo without a stitch misplaced, maybe a little classier than usual, his tie fell straight as an arrow down his chest. Offering his arm to Price, sleeve pushed back, he showed her his vintage watch. First walkie-talkie wristwatch. 1936, Poland. Only made 20. Still works. (Skye had noticed it on multiple occasions in his office. Knew his sentimentality for the 'finer' things of the past. But still... _He never moved his collectibles. Why now?)_ Dimpled smile peeking out, crumbling his professional facade, Coulson couldn't hide that he was the most genuine person at the conference. Unassuming, classically old fashioned, with an appreciation for the small things in life that escaped most people, his good-natured mannerisms never faltered even when taking down assailants.

 _Totally Vlad. Teddy bear in a suit and all._

Letting the last thirty seconds of her approach suffice for a heads up – okay, maybe curiosity got the better of her, and whatever it was they were talking about, neither of them had once looked in her direction... So much for all the slow, loud heel clicking. Sooo... Hand out. Posture relaxed. Smile friendly, but professional, Skye sidled into the conversation.

"Ms. Price, Skye Johnson."

"Oh? Indeed. I'm pleased to meet you." Platitudes rolling off her tongue out of mindless politeness, the minuscule once over and sharp reaction spoke of ingrained situational awareness. Eyebrow tilting in question to Coulson, even tone hinting at stifled amusement, she accepted the handshake. "One of yours, I presume?"

Callused palm firm, unyielding, the woman's grip sized her up, the weighty tension of judgment filling the three count hold then release. Nodding in Coulson's direction, Skye offered a perfunctory, "Sir," earning a responding nod and fleeting smile in return.

"Agent." Attention redirecting back to Price, Coulson bridged the introduction seamlessly. "Per our discussion a few minutes ago, I've assigned Agent Johnson to be your security detail."

"Her skills?"

"Exemplary hacker. Smart on her feet. Clever strategist. Good with people."

"Colorblind?"

"You said you wanted someone who sees like you do."

Oh. That was... revealing. "You went gray?" Reanalyzing, spotting what she'd passed over before, Skye empathized with her. Appearance deliberately procured to show strength, there was a depth to her eyes, a hardening of the features that hid internal fractures. At a guess, Skye would say the woman rarely smiled. Autonomy had not come easily to her.

"A few years ago." Level gaze flinty, chin lifting authoritatively, Rosalind conveyed challenge, willing to prove that that fact didn't make her more or less weak than anyone else. "It's why I formed the ATCU."

In their line of business, going gray meant a deficiency. That the person had been so codependent of their soul mate that they reverted, unable to cope with the loss. 68% of those who went gray was due to the shock of a partner passing suddenly. It was the 32% though that gave rise to the opinion of going gray being a deficiency. For Price to be gray, yet operating as director of her own company, meant that it had instead become a 'defining moment.'

"Skye has experience with cases like yours."

"Hmm, and you don't?" Barb leaping past all borders of protocol, it landed squarely in teasing. Warmth softening her edges, Price let her guard down. But only momentarily.

Answering with an enigmatic grin, Coulson deferred to subtlety. "That's classified."

"You'll tell me someday."

Full on cheshire cat grin now. Slipping back into professional, Coulson cold-heartedly killed the banter – and it was getting good! (Skye kind of – desperately – wanted to know who his soul mate was too.)

"I believe you'll find Agent Johnson more than fits your bill."

"With that recommendation, I look forward to working with you." Expression lightening briefly in Skye's direction, her version of a smile, Price's gaze dropped to the champagne glass in Skye's hand momentarily. As if the sight of it had reminded her of something, she murmured tactfully, "If you'll excuse me, I must see to my guests."

 _Yep. Price was definitely Sophie in her Anastasia headcanon._

Elbowing her supervisor, grin hungry for details, Skye pounced. "You two get along well. Hmm?"

But was blocked by a cunning sidestep."I hope you're not drinking on the job, Agent Johnson?"

"ACDC." Raising a silent toast to him, Skye took a slow, deliberate sip, the corners of her mouth twitching back a laugh. "Hydration purposes only, I promise."

"You're on a mission."

"C'mon Coulson, we're at a black tie formal. **Everyone** literally has a champagne glass! It's part of my cover." Impish smile coming out full force, chin lifted, she waited for his repartee. Hmm, too bad she hadn't held the smile back a little longer. It looked like he was on to her.

"I suppose you believed them about the truth serum."

Interesting counter strike. "It doesn't exist."

"Whatever you say, rookie. Don't forget to stay close to Ms. Price."

Descending the stairs, Coulson struck up a conversation with a man of military bearing. Close-cropped, dark hair doing little to hide his receding hairline, he greeted Coulson an aggressive friendliness that spoke of years of rivalry. On his arm, a woman in a subdued gray, sequined dress demurely reprimanded him for politeness sake.

 _Time to do her job._

* * *

/\\\/\\\

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A/N: Several season 1 quotes have been scattered throughout, kudos to anyone who catches them! As mentioned before, I'm several seasons behind, I've only seen a handful of episodes from season 3 (but have read plenty of character bios and episode summaries!) so any mischaracterization is on me. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Keep an eye out for Chapter 4 tomorrow! Until then ^^

* * *

 _Price: Skills?_

 _Coulson: Excellent reviewer. My Agent never fails to send the author into cardiac arrest through happiness. *Glances at you* Agent? Why haven't you done your job yet? *coughcough* You're making me look bad. Go review!_

 _...oOo..._

 _Reviews are greatly appreciated!_


	4. Four: Access Denied

_**Four: Access Denied**_

 _Follow the truth, wherever it leads..._

di·vert

/dəˈvərt,dīˈvərt/

 _verb_

 **1.** cause (someone or something) to change course or turn from one direction to another.

"a scheme to **divert** water **from** the river to irrigate agricultural land"

 **2.** distract (someone or their attention) from something.

"he **diverted** her from her studies"

* * *

"Ash to ashes, dust to dust.

Your deception, my disgust."

– _Linkin Park: Skin to Bone_

* * *

 **SHIELD**

 **PRIVATE QUARTERS**

 **00:00 EST**

Closing out of the previous document, the original window reappears.

SHIELD DATABASE FILES

Fingers swiftly tapping out the keys, the new inquiry immediately brings back results.

CIA MISSION REPORT

OPERATION: JANUS

AGENT: XXX

AUTHORIZED BY: XXX

MISSION GOAL: XXX

CLEARANCE DENIED

DIRECTOR LEVEL CLASSIFIED

AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED

VERIFICATION: CIA PRESIDENT

Tentatively trying a few overrides, DENIED flashes warningly across the page. Undeterred, confident that it'd give way with the right hack, she keyed in an algorithm, watched it for a minute to make sure it'd taken, then turned her attention back to decrypting data. With patient perseverance, all the pieces would fall into place. She just hoped that it wasn't too late by then.

In the meantime...

 _Another angle._

She just needed to work backwards from what she knew.

SHIELD maintains thousands of digital files. Agent bios. Mission briefs. Communication transcripts. Approval documentation. Medical records. All of it could be found within the extensive, digital catacombs that made up SHIELD's intelligence. Something, somewhere would give her a lead.

* * *

" _I spy something gray."_

" _The gun is black."_

 _That smile, concealing so many emotions."Everything isn't black or white, Skye."_

" _Isn't it?"_

 _Resigned head shake. "You don't know what you're missing."_

* * *

Damn Ward! Him and his games, the smug bastard. Why hadn't she noticed his shirt was gray?

 _Because you hate him_ , her mind supplied.

 _Because he hurt you_ , her heart corrected.

Mood souring, brows crinkling together fiercely in a mile deep trough, she sent the mouse careening across the screen. What else had she missed?

* * *

/\\\/\\\

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

* * *

 _A little trivia. Florence + the Machine's No Light No Light is the titular song of this fanfic. I believe the lyrics go like:_

 _"No Light, no light,_

 _When there are no new reviews..."_

* * *

 _Reviews are greatly appreciated!_


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